


First Meetings

by Muftiday



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Atlus stop denying me my good mishima content, Depressing Thoughts, Frankly why WASN'T there a Mishima in Kamoshida's Castle, General Kamoshida Fuckery, Lots of internal monologue, M/M, Mention of Exploitation of Power, Mention of Physical and Emotional Abuse, Real Mishima vs Cognition Mishima
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 03:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16778926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muftiday/pseuds/Muftiday
Summary: The first time Mishima sees Akira’s face is when he’s reading a newspaper article about his assault case.--In which the first time Mishima meets Akira, is not, in fact, the only first time he meets him. An AU where Akira meets a version of Mishima in the dungeons of Kamoshida's Castle with the other slaves, and the real Mishima can't quite understand why the boy's life he ruined keeps looking at him with such sad eyes. Or why they feel so familiar...





	First Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> dark atlus give me the forbidden mishima content

The first time Mishima sees Akira’s face is when he’s reading a newspaper article about his assault case.

  


It’s not difficult to find the details. It’d been a spectacle; Akira came from a country town so tiny Mishima hadn’t even bothered to find its name, so such a large scale scandal had made front page news for weeks. The basics are all there plain to see; assault with witnesses, probation before juvenile detention, almost no resistance from the boy… There’s a picture of him holding a prize included, probably from some school event, an arm from some unseen person hooked around his shoulder, cropped out to focus on Akira alone. He looks happy. Unruly curly hair just dipping below his eye line, glasses crooked on his face from his wide grin of laughter…

  


Mishima’s fingers hesitate on his mouse for a moment, ready to post it on the site he knows countless students frequent. It’ll take minutes for someone to see it and post it on social media. Hours for it to spread to most of the school. A day, perhaps, to reach everyone else by word of mouth.

  


The hesitation only lasts a moment.

  


After all, Kamoshida has ~~forced~~ asked him to do this. And he can’t exactly refuse, can he?

  


He clicks, and it’s done. Posted, for all to see. The article is included for source credibility, but Mishima knows barely anyone will bother to read it. He almost could’ve forgone it completely, but… His black eye twinges painfully at the memory of the last time Kamoshida got annoyed at him.

  


Better to be safe than sorry.

  


He spends the next few minutes refreshing, checking the first few comments and shares that come through just to make sure it’s worked. Sure enough, it takes less than an hour for it to explode, countless students’ names flitting across his screen as Mishima scrolls, skimming them.

  


_‘he’s coming to shujin???’_

  


_‘How could the teachers let this happen?’_

  


_‘THIS IS AWFUL!!!!’_

  


_‘Probation? People like him shouldn’t get any second chances. Just throw him in jail like he deserves! Why should we be put in danger for his sake?’_

  


Mishima’s work is done. No doubt this will be all the school talks about tomorrow, and Kamoshida will know he’s done his job. He might even avoid a beating for once...! He’d made sure to keep himself anonymous as best he could, but he knows it’s mostly lost on the masses. No one would care even if they did know it was him who posted it. And it wasn’t like it was information that was difficult to find… Mishima had only needed to Google search the boy’s name to find the article. It was easy. So easy.

  


He briefly thinks to himself that it’s a waste of his skill but then catches a glimpse of Akira’s jubilantly squinted eyes on his screen, and white-hot shame floods him immediately. He looks so happy in the picture… Could someone like him really have committed assault...?

  


Well. If there’s anything Mishima’s learnt, it’s that whether or not you’ve really done something doesn’t matter. All that matters is power.

  


~~Mishima feels the familiar burn of bitterness rise in the back of throat. Rage swells in him: at Kamoshida for making him like this, at the principal for ignoring it, at his parents for pretending not to see the bruises…~~

  


~~But most of all, at himself, for letting them do this to him.~~

  


He closes his laptop and heads to bed early. He has volleyball practice tomorrow, after all.

  
  
  


…

  
  
  


He’s in a jail cell.

  


It’s not uncommon for him to be here, not uncommon for any of them. After all, it’s not as though King Kamoshida gives him and the other volleyball members rooms. No, only the freezing dampness of the dungeon’s stone floors for them. At least it’s better than the Training Hall.

  


Though to be fair, anything’s better than the Training Hall.

  


Mishima’s just come out of there, bones feeling on the verge of snapping in two, muscles burning in agony, throat tight and dry… Distantly, he can hear the screams of torture from his teammates still being subjected to “Training,” and Mishima knows he’ll join them again soon enough. He’ll only be allowed in his cell for as long as it takes to recover some stamina. Then, it’s right back out there.

  


After all, it’s only fun if there’s some spirit left to break, right?

  


Mishima presses his bruised and swollen cheek against the freezing surface of the stone floor, wincing at the pain blossoming in his face. King Kamoshida seems to be especially harsh today… He seems aggravated somehow, and for once, it’s not even Mishima’s fault. There’s talk of intruders in the Castle, security ramped up to the max, and Kamoshida taking out his anger on his slaves…

  


Whatever. It’s none of his business. Mishima barely has the energy to breathe, let alone think about anything right now. Sprawled out on his cell floor, too exhausted to move, he simply lets the damp coolness of the dungeon seep into him, almost a comfort to his pain. Even if it’s only for a few minutes… It’s a few minutes away from “Training.”

  


This time, though, he has company.

  


He hears the footsteps, rushed, and running past his cell door. Mishima pays them no mind, assuming they’re guards chasing after the rumoured intruders he’s heard so much about. As he suspected, they lead away until he can no longer hear them, but…

  


One of them doesn’t.

  


Mishima waits, but they don’t leave. Eventually, the curiosity becomes too much, and though every movement sends jolts of agony down his body, he cranes his neck to look out his cell door, expecting a guard ready to drag him back to to “Training,” but…

  


It’s not.

  


Instead, it’s a tall looking boy, wearing some sort of… White and black mask? Strikingly red gloves leap out against his black coat, and though the mask and his hair obscure most of his face, his brown eyes stare at Mishima with an intensity that refuses to let them be missed. Mishima thinks he looks vaguely familiar. But he doesn’t know where from…

  


“… Wh—Wh are you looking a—..?” Mishima asks, but with his face still pressed against the ground, and the harsh cough that wracks his body midway through.. It sounds pathetic, even to his own ears. He thinks he coughed up some blood, perhaps. It’s hard to tell on the dark stone floor…

  


The boy’s gaze doesn’t shift, but his eyes soften with… Pity, perhaps? He crouches, moving closer to the bars, extending a hand through them, seeming to want to help Mishima somehow, but…

  


“D… Don’t,” Mishima chokes out, and the gloved hand stills. “There’s nothing you can do… There’s n—no point…” He can feel another coughing fit building in his chest as he speaks, but he wills it down for the moment. Even just speaking wracks his body with pain.

  
  


The stranger looks like he wants to argue, opening his mouth with what is no doubt a comeback, but before he can make it, the footsteps return. And with it, another voice Mishima swears he knows…

  
  


“What’re you doing!? We gotta go, man! We ain’t got time to waste here!”

  
  


Again, the stranger hesitates, eyes flitting from Mishima to his friend out of sight. He looks conflicted, and Mishima can’t help the quiet huff of laughter that escapes him, even if it turns into a wheeze of pain as his chest burns in agony.

  
  


“Lis—listen to your friend,” he manages to gasp. “They’re looking for you…”

  
  


As if on cue, the clanking footfalls of approaching guards echo through the dungeons as they begin to approach. The stranger’s head whips towards them, and his friend once again yells for him to hurry it up, but he still hesitates. His gaze returns to Mishima, sharpening with resolve. He straightens up, and Mishima thinks that’s that, but before he leaves…

  
  


“I’ll be back,” the stranger says.

  
  


And then he’s gone.

  
  


If guards hadn’t rushed past his cell door moments later, clamouring and yelling about the intruders and them coming this way, Mishima would chalk it all up to a hallucination of his pain-addled mind. But the stranger’s voice echoes through his mind with such clarity, he just can’t quite bring himself to believe it was fake. His tone hadn’t left room for argument, but… It’s too good to be true. Why would anyone come back for him, of all people...? He’s no one.

  
  


But… It’d be nice if it were true. And if Mishima tries, really, really tries… He can almost believe it is.

  
  


**_“ON YOUR FEET, SLAVE! IT’S TIME TO RESUME TRAINING!”_ **

  
  


Well, it was nice while it lasted.

  
  
  


…

  
  


Akira is late on his first day.

This isn’t a surprise to Mishima per se, and it certainly isn’t to the rest of the school. Already rumours have spread like wildfire around the campus; whispers that he pulled a knife on the man in the assault case, that he even tried to _kill_ him and fought tooth and nail against the officers trying to take him in… All fake, of course - Mishima knows that better than anyone - but they still give him pause. Just how dangerous _is_ this new kid..? If he ever found out Mishima was the one to leak his criminal record…

He shudders to even think about it.

The rumour mill has been doing such a good job of seeding mistrust and subdued hysteria in the student body that Mishima doesn’t even have to _do_ anything. His job’s mostly been done for him, it seems…

If Kamoshida is pleased with the results of Mishima’s work, he certainly doesn’t show it during that day’s… special “training” session.

It’s nothing a few strategically placed bandages can’t hide. Mishima’s grown to be quite adept at covering up the worst of the damage Kamoshida does.

~~Not as though anyone would care if they _did_ see it, anyway…~~

The walk out of Kamoshida’s office to his locker to fetch the bandages is almost worse than the actual beating. People barely give him a sideways glance as he shuffles down the hall, and anyone who _does_ quickly averts their eyes back to the ground or the person they’re talking to. Their gaze catches on the newest offender, a raw scrape on his cheek, freshly blossoming an irritated scarlet, before flicking away, as though they never saw it.

As though they never saw _him._

But no one ever does, do they? He may as well not exist. Even when people _do_ see him, it’s only ever for a moment before they try to forget him, an unpleasant stain of guilt on their otherwise pristine day. Nothing the right amount of bleach can’t fix. Not talented, not charming, not popular… Mishima’s a walking, talking punching bag, and he knows it. Everyone knows he’s only on the volleyball team because Kamoshida needs someone to take the worst of his temper out on. And heaven forbid his abuse stop an actually _useful_ player from performing their best… No, he values the team’s appearances above even that. And so, Mishima finds his niche. Useful only in his uselessness. Something to be ignored, trashed, beaten, used up, before being left for dead, less than nothing, _worse_ than nothing, not even worthy of being called a _zero—_

“... Are you okay?”

Belatedly, Mishima realises he’s walked straight into someone, too absorbed in his own internal tirade of self-hatred to look where he was going. The impact, though slight, jars a still fresh injury in his shoulder, and he jolts back. He hisses a sharp breath of pain through his teeth. An apology on his tongue, he looks up…

Only to come face to face with Akira Kurusu.

He looks exactly like his photo in the article, except... more tired. The easy laughter and joy in his eyes is long gone, and if it weren’t for the telltale messy hair and crooked glasses, he’d almost think they weren’t the same person…

~~But Mishima’s the one to blame for that, right?~~

“Do you need to go the nurse?” Akira eventually asks, tilting his head slightly in a concern that has Mishima continue to fumble for a response. “I’m not sure where it is, but I could escort you…”

“I—“ Mishima stammers, the intensity of Akira’s stubborn gaze refusing to let up for even a moment. Why… Why won’t he look away? Everyone else does! Under that scrutinising look… Mishima feels exposed. Like Akira must _know_ what he’s done, that he’s here for revenge, to do something even _worse_ than Kamoshida. “I’m… Not sure wh—what you’re talking about...!”

Rather than a verbal response, Akira simply flicks his unfaltering gaze to Mishima’s grazed cheek, giving him a brief moment of respite… But only brief. Almost immediately, he’s back looking at him with those strange, soft, almost… guilty-looking eyes.

~~What does Akira have to feel guilty about? Mishima’s the only guilty one here.~~

“Th—This..?” Mishima scrambles, slapping a hand over his cheek to cover the offending wound, wincing slightly at the sting of pain. “It’s—It’s nothing! I just—fell during volleyball practice! That’s all!” The lies that normally come to Mishima like second nature suddenly stick and grate in his throat. Why is this suddenly so hard...?

~~… When was the last time someone actually asked after him?~~

Akira doesn’t look convinced, but Mishima doesn’t give him a chance to argue, already skirting around him. He runs like a cornered animal, _feeling_ like one too. For a moment he thinks Akira might follow him, but an impatient-sounding voice calls him from the stairway, and by the time he replies and turns back to Mishima… He’s already gone. He reaches his locker, heart pounding and a cold sweat beading on his forehead. What… Ddd Akira want from him...? Did he know about him leaking his criminal record? 

… And why did his sad gaze feel so familiar...?

  
  
  


…

  
  


Interestingly, the stranger _does_ come back.

Mishima is surprised, but not… unpleasantly so. It starts out the same as any other day, lying motionless with agony on the familiar freezing cold of the dungeon floor, trying to ignore the wracks of pain that shoot through him whenever he so much as breathes… He counts down the minutes before the guards return with another bout of training, unsure if he’d rather they quit this torturous waiting game and just work him relentlessly, or continue with these awful moments of almost peace.

And then, once more, the stranger is there.

This time, the halting footsteps ignite an unfamiliar feeling in Mishima. Something he thinks might be… hope..? He dares not to raise his head for a long few moments. If he looks up, he knows it will just be a guard waiting to take him back… But if he stays here, eyes closed and simply _thinking_ of what it could be… Then it really is the stranger, come back to take him away from this terrible place, staying true to his promise, actually _caring_ about him..! It’s a silly fantasy, Mishima knows. But he wants to hold onto it. Just for a few moments longer...

Soon enough, the curiosity overwhelms him, and he shifts his face with a painful ache to look upwards. And there, standing above him, is the stranger.

Mishima’s heart skips a beat in what he _thinks_ is excitement. Or maybe it’s finally giving up under King Kamoshida’s abuse..? He hopes not. Dropping dead now would be a sick turn of fate… Luckily, the stranger’s friend cuts in again, giving Mishima a chance to remember how to do human things, like speak.

“Didn’t you listen to the furball? He ain’t _real,_ man! And even if he was, what’re you planning to do!?”

“For once, I agree with him. There’s no point to this, you know?”

The second voice is new, Mishima notes… This stranger sure is popular, huh?

“Just keep an eye out for guards,” the stranger says simply. His tone is authoritative, leaving no room for argument, and the two voices grumble before fading away to presumably follow his orders. The command he has over them reminds Mishima of King Kamoshida, in a way… But he has a feeling this stranger isn’t quite the same as the King.

“You—“ It takes Mishima a few tries to choke the words out, but he manages eventually. “You came back...!”

The stranger says nothing, but his eyes soften behind his mask. After a moment, he shifts, and Mishima flinches more out of instinct than anything else. But the strike he expects never comes. Instead, the stranger is sitting in front of the bars, looking even sadder than before.

“I said I would,” is all he says, as though that explains everything. Mishima can’t help the short bark of incredulous laughter that escapes him, curling up in agony as it chokes off into a subdued groan of pain. Is this… guy for real...?

“Who—Who _are_ you...?” Mishima asks. He _has_ to be the intruder the castle is abuzz about, or, one of them at least, from the sounds of his friends…

“You can call me Joker,” the stranger—no, _Joker,_ replies simply. “And…”

“I’m going to help you.”

  
  


…

  
  


Akira knows.

It’s the only explanation. Mishima can _feel_ his eyes on him everywhere he goes. In class, the hallways, during lunch, between lessons, even during the volleyball tournament...! Does the man ever take a _break..?_ He’s tried to approach him almost every chance he gets, and Mishima’s escapes are getting narrower as the days go by. At this rate, he’s going to get caught, and then...!

Then it’s _game over._

Mishima doesn’t know how he found out that it was him that leaked his criminal record. But he _knows_ that’s what’s going on here. There’s nothing else it could _be...!_ He always thought that Kamoshida would be the way he went, or perhaps exhaustion from his inhumane training regime, but no… Instead, his beaten and broken body will be found behind Shujin, another victim of Akira Kurusu..

~~The worst part is, he sort of deserves it.~~

Mishima’s days are numbered. There’s only so long he can keep dodging Akira after class, and when he finds out him and Sakamoto have been interrogating the volleyball team members…

Those numbers become very small, _very_ quickly.

  
  
  


…

  


Mishima’s come to look forward to these meetings between him and Joker.

Though, to be fair, it’s not difficult to compete with the otherwise agonising daily routine of “Training” at King Kamoshida’s hands. But somehow, knowing that Joker will be visiting once a day like clockwork makes the pain just that little bit easier to endure. Even while King Kamoshida’s methods grow more and more cruel, escalating in raw violence and unbridled rage, and his teammates fall like broken puppets around him, Mishima can’t help but be miles away in his head. Somewhere else, somewhere peaceful, somewhere…

Somewhere with Joker.

King Kamoshida must know his “Training” isn’t quite affecting Mishima as it usually would, because he grants him the special privilege of a private “Training” session. Even by the King’s standards, this one is…

_Harsh._

Eventually a guard has to step in to remind King Kamoshida not to actually _kill_ Mishima, lest he lose his favourite toy. He obviously wants to continue, however, foot grinding Mishima’s bruised and raw cheek into the rough stone ground. Eventually he does releases him, demanding the guards take him to his cell... but not without a last, brutal twist of his heel against his skull that has Mishima’s head spinning and dark, pulsating spots clouding his vision. He passes in and out of consciousness as the guards roughly drag him down to the dungeons, every drop of blood he lets stain the floor earning him yet another harsh jolt from his escorts. Soon enough, the freezing air of the dungeons hits his skin, alighting his fresh wounds with a new agony before he’s thrown into his cell. The guards don’t waste another second on him, condescending sneers on their masked faces as they depart.

For what could be five minutes or an eternity, Mishima simply tries to _breathe_ through the agony wracking his body.

Nonetheless, he drags himself up onto the metal bed chained to his cell wall, the cool surface both a comfort and an added pain to his broken body. Every movement hurts, reminding his body of the countless injuries and aches he’s accumulated. Breathing is even _worse._ He vaguely thinks he might have some broken ribs, maybe a punctured lung, but he pushes through it.

He has to at least _try_ to look put together for Joker.

Mishima’s not sure how long it is before Joker arrives. All he knows is one moment he’s letting the pain consume his vision and brain with its static fuzz, eyelids drooping and body slumping, and the next he opens them and Joker’s there. He doesn’t have the energy to jump in surprise, but his brain jolts with brief panic in its place. How long had he been there? Not long, he hopes, he didn’t want to keep him waiting… Why’d he let himself fall asleep!? _Stupid!_

Mishima’s internal tirade must show on his face, because Joker smiles kindly from his place seated at the bars, cheek resting propped against his palm.

“Don’t worry,” he says, eyes soft and melting with something Mishima _dares_ to believe might be fondness. “I only just got here.” Despite his best efforts, Mishima still hastens to straighten up in his seat, hissing in pain between scrambled attempts to apologise. Joker simply smiles wider, a flash of sparkling white teeth showing for barely a moment, sharp and bared in something like a snarl. It should scare Mishima.

Somehow, it only makes him feel safer.

  


...

  
  


Mishima knows the moment the volleyball connects with his face that today is the day Akira finally catches him.

The pain isn’t new; God knows Mishima’s taken his fair share of volleyballs to the face, along with _much worse,_ but the public humiliation stings more than anything else. Kamoshida’s fake concern is the salt in the wound, and the satisfied glint in his eye isn’t lost on him. This was no accident. Mishima knows it. Kamoshida knows it. Hell, the whole _school_ knows it…

Akira knows it.

Once again, he feels his eyes follow him as he’s escorted out of the gym to the nurse’s office; and sure enough, as he’s leaving the school, him and Sakamoto corner him. Kamoshida intervenes soon enough, and Sakamoto’s outrage reminds Mishima of himself, once upon a time. Before he knew how pointless it was to try and argue, to think things could be better, to fight back…

~~Before his parents willfully ignored the newest bruises and scrapes he came home with without a single word of concern. They know. Mishima knows they know. They just don’t care.~~

Mishima tells them as much. Sakamoto only seems to grow angrier, while Akira… continues to look at him with those damn sad eyes. Mishima wishes he’d stop.

He wishes he knew why they felt so familiar.

  
  


…

  
  


This time, Joker has a new friend with him.

Like the others, she looks familiar, but Mishima can’t quite place her… She clearly knows him, however. When she catches sight of him, her fists clench and her eyes mist over with a mix of emotions he feels… strangely guilty for, though he’s not sure why. She looks to Joker, unspoken questions in her eyes, but he simply shakes his head silently. For a moment, Mishima thinks she might argue, but she appears to think better of it, giving him one final conflicted look and storming off.

“Why do I feel like I know all of your friends somehow...?” Mishima asks once she’s left. This time he’s made it onto the metal bed, nestled against the cool stone wall in the corner, but he doesn’t think it’s any more comfortable than the floor.

“Even the cat?” Joker replies smoothly, not missing a beat.

“Okay,” Mishima chuckles softly, only wincing a _little_ at the pain it sends throbbing through him. “ _Almost_ all of your friends.” He gets only an amused smile in return, but he knows there’s something Joker isn’t telling him. Even if he’s a smooth talker…

His eyes never lie.

“I can’t stay long,” Joker apologises softly. “Security’s on high alert.”

“I’ve noticed,” Mishima replies, shifting slightly as his side aches. King Kamoshida has been especially brutal as of late with his punishments, and he has no doubt it’s him taking out his frustrations of the increasing infiltration of Joker and his friends. To his credit, Joker looks guilty. He reaches his hands to grasp at the bars of Mishima’s cell, the leather of his gloves crinkling as he tightens his grip with restrained anger.

“I’m sorry it’s taking so long…” Joker mutters. It’s the first time in as long as Mishima can remember someone’s genuinely _apologised_ to him. “But I promise… I _will_ help you. Soon.”

Mishima reaches a bruised and tentative hand to softly clasp the cool leather of Joker’s gloves.

“I believe you,” he says.

And the thing is, he really does.

  
  


…

  
  


Mishima doesn’t mind so much that he’s getting expelled.

Of course, he dreads the quiet disappointment, but ultimate indifference of his parents ~~(because when have they ever cared before?)~~ ; the walk of shame with his bag out of the school; the ugly blot on his record that will doubtlessly haunt him; but he always knew somehow that Kamoshida would get sick of him. It was only a matter of time, really.

~~Isn’t it always?~~

Though, Mishima had never expected _himself_ to be the one snapping. He always thought he’d be thrown away, a broken toy discarded after one too many rough play sessions, too unsightly to look at any longer… But instead, _Shiho_ had been that broken toy.

_God,_ Shiho…

Just thinking about the image of her body, lying broken and crooked in all the wrong places, not bleeding, but somehow so much _worse_ without any blood, and Ann curled next to her, sobbing and hysterical… It makes Mishima sick to his stomach. Sick with Kamoshida for driving her there, sick with the school for doing nothing—

~~Sick with himself, for willfully sending her to it.~~

He’d run, of course. Just like he always ran. From Kamoshida, from his guilt, from the school, from the judging eyes of his peers, from his parents’ coldness… And now, from this. From Shiho.

And like always, Akira had been there.

Mishima cracks under his constant soft gaze, eyes sad and sympathetic as all his secrets come tumbling from his lips as he collapses on Kamoshida’s office floor. Leaking his records, sending Shiho to him, the abuse; everything. Once he starts, he can’t seem to stop. It all just comes rushing out of him, like a long taped-up leak that’s finally burst, confessions and fears finally, _finally,_ out in the open. He doesn’t even _care_ if Akira hates him, now. He deserves it. He knows he does. By all rights, he _should_ hate him.

But he doesn’t.

The only anger in Akira’s eyes is when he looks at Kamoshida. For Mishima, all he has is that same soft gaze he’s come to expect. When Kamoshida’s seemingly done with his gloating, and Sakamoto’s regained some composure, Akira crouches and wordlessly offers Mishima a hand. For a long time, he simply stares at it, not quite understanding what he’s seeing, silent bewilderment and disbelief on his face, before… He takes it. Hesitantly, and half afraid Akira will only hurt him, but he takes it.

~~Something about it feels familiar. But that’s insane. They’ve _certainly_ never done this before, Mishima would remember. ~~

~~Why doesn’t he remember..?~~

As soon as they’re out of the faculty office, Sakamoto runs off, shouting something at Akira over his shoulder about meeting a ‘Morgana’..? Whatever that means. Akira smiles amusedly, and follows. Mishima can’t help the wave of disappointment that rises in him, though he quells it just as quickly as it arrives with shame and anger. He has no right to feel that way! He doesn’t even have _cause_ to feel that way! He’d ruined Akira’s second chances of a fresh start at Shujin, and just gotten him expelled! Not to mention they’ve hardly spoken. The only reason Mishima knows so much about him is that he had to _read_ his criminal record in order to _leak_ it!

~~So why does he feel he knows him anyway?~~

There’s no time to think on it further before Akira’s… back? And with a canned drink, it seems, from one of the vending machines nearby, no doubt. But he doesn’t appear to have any more than the one, and it can’t _possibly_ be for Mishima…

Though Akira handing it to him suggests otherwise.

“Don’t worry,” he says softly, his glasses and curled edges of his hair barely obscuring his soft eyes. “I— _We_ are going to help you.” He presses the cool aluminium of the can into Mishima’s hands, and, with one last quirk of his lips, leaves him to follow after Sakamoto.

~~Somehow, it all feels so achingly familiar, and Mishima doesn’t know why.~~

Mishima doesn’t mind being expelled. But he minds dragging Akira down with him.

  
  


_…_

  
  


The castle is collapsing.

Mishima strongly suspects it has to do with Joker and his friends, given how all the guards had been frantically fleeing the dungeons on high alert, stationed just about everywhere _but_ the cells in King Kamoshida’s panic. The guards had been talking about something being stolen, but Mishima doesn’t know the details. He normally doesn’t have the energy or interest for eavesdropping on guards, but lately when he hears something that might be about Joker… He finds himself tuning in, whether he intends to or not.

Regardless, the dungeons have been empty save for the slaves for what seems like days. Of course, his fellow slaves have only been resting for that time, and Mishima can’t exactly blame them. It’s not often they get a break from Kamoshida’s “Training”. Or ever, that he can remember. He knows he should be taking the opportunity as well, be ecstatic for such a peaceful time, but all he feels is _restless._

Because for as long as the guards have been absent, so has Joker.

Mishima just about paces ruts into the stone floor before he finally goes to rattle the cell door in desperation, hoping against all odds that maybe Joker will hear him somehow, when… the door just _opens._ It swings open with a damning screech, echoing through the empty dungeons. Mishima waits for the answering guards’ footsteps coming to punish him, but… they never arrive.

And for the first time in as long as Mishima can remember, he leaves the dungeons.

He doesn’t spend much time there, having seen the decor more than enough times on his usual journeys to the Training Hall. Though, he supposes it is a _little_ different when you’re not being dragged by guards and half-delirious from pain and blood loss. Not enough to have him stay, however. He never wants to step foot in that dungeon again for as long as he lives.

Which, it seems, won’t be much longer.

Halfway up the staircase to the ground floor, the tremors start. Soon enough the steps are cracking beneath him, walls crumbling and falling to dust, echoing sounds of destruction and decay shaking the entire castle as it falls to pieces. But Mishima doesn’t quicken his pace, even as the steps just behind him start to give way. Death isn’t something that particularly scares him anymore. If it wants him, it can take him. He makes it to the entrance hall before the worst of it starts, lavish carpets tearing and fraying as extravagant chandeliers crash to the floor and shatter around him. There’s a frankly disgusting portrait of King Kamoshida across the room in pride of place on the wall grinning at him, rattling and jolting on its hanger. Eventually, it falls to the floor in a heap, frame snapping and tearing the canvas as it goes.

Good riddance, Mishima thinks.

He walks the stairs through the castle as guards run for their lives around him, either not noticing him or simply not caring as their entire world crumbles around them. But that’s fine as far as Mishima’s concerned. It’s not like it was much of a world for him, anyway. He just wishes… he could see Joker one last time.

Speak of the Devil.

Mishima rounds a corner of some nauseatingly rich-looking hallway when he sees him, sprinting away to some blinding white light that hurts Mishima’s eyes to even look at, but he does anyway. Because Joker’s there. He’s _there._ His friends are too, running behind him, and he skids to a halt just before the light to usher them through, a frantic air to his movements, and he looks back to make sure they’re all accounted for, and…

He sees Mishima.

His eyes look the saddest he’s ever seen them, and Mishima wants more than anything to walk over and hug him, to thank him, to let him know just how much his visits have given him meaning, a purpose, something to _live for_ … But they don’t have the time. He knows that. Joker knows that. But that doesn’t mean they have to be happy about it.

“I’m sorry!” Joker yells over the destruction, voice broken and apologetic. Mishima decides he doesn’t like how it sounds on him, and laughs incredulously. It’s the first time he’s genuinely laughed in… he thinks his entire life.

“What for?” Mishima asks. “You did exactly what you said! You helped me.” He grins widely, so wide it feels like it might split his face clean in two, but it’s a kind of pain Mishima welcomes for once. “I just wish… I wish I could help _you.”_

“You still could,” Joker says, but Mishima laughs again.

“No, not me.” He says, gesturing to the flaking wallpaper and cracking walls around him. “But… maybe the _real_ Mishima will, Akira.”

If Akira is surprised, he doesn’t have time to show it, mouth opening to reply, but a distorted voice from beyond the light beckons him forth before he can get the words out. Mishima grins at him, and waves. There’s a final moment of hesitation, the last soft look that Mishima embeds in his mind for safekeeping, and then…

Akira is gone.

Mishima has never felt happier as his entire universe collapses in on itself. The last thing he thinks of as he closes his eyes and awaits for the falling ceiling to crush him is a pair of achingly soft brown eyes.

  
  


…

  
  


Somewhere else, Mishima wakes up, with only one thing on his mind.

After an all nighter spent clacking away on his laptop, a few crash courses in coding and website creation, several cup noodles messily scattered around his room, and more energy drinks than he can even count, it’s finished, albeit riddled with glitches and in serious need of editing. The Phantom Aficionado website. Even in Mishima’s exhaustion-addled state, sleep threatening to steal away his mind, and the mix of noodles and energy drinks sitting nauseously in his stomach, he leaps out of bed to prepare for the coming school day.

He can’t _wait_ to show Akira.


End file.
